


Through a Mirror, Darkly

by MissNaya



Category: DCU
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Drowning, Drug Abuse, Eating Disorders, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Face-Sitting, Fat Shaming, Heavy Angst, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Underage Sex, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Rimming, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Smoking, Spanking, Substance Abuse, Sugar Daddy, Torture, Underage Drinking, Underage Prostitution, Verbal Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-04-01 08:56:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13994853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: Black Mask's sons aren't allowed to love. Jason has known that since he was first adopted; Dick's known it even longer. But when Jason meets someone who makes the world feel a little less heavy, will he be able to go back to how things used to be?An alternate universe where Roman Sionis adopts both Dick and Jason after their parents die. Also known as the "Mirror Mask AU."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's here! it's here! it's finally here! if you follow me on [tumblr,](https://dicktofen.tumblr.com/) you're probably already familiar with my Mirror Mask AU. I changed the title to be more ~official,~ but that's what this is. I'm so excited to finally take this long-time jumble of ideas and plotlines and try to assemble it into a coherent thing.
> 
> for those of you just tuning in, be warned that **more tags will be added as the story progresses,** so check it often to make sure you don't accidentally stumble into anything you can't handle. basically, just assume that if it could possibly trigger someone, it'll prrrrobably show up at some point. this is by no means a happy AU.
> 
> alright! that should do it. I really, really hope this lives up to expectations, and I hope you all enjoy!

The party is bright and elegant and filled with the serene sounds of violin music, and Jason feels terribly out of place.

It’s not often that the Sionis family attends gatherings like this one. Their patriarch, Roman, is well-known among the Gotham elite as a shady businessman at best and a crime lord at worst. Despite it all, he’s never been nailed with a conviction that sticks; technically, he’s no guiltier than anyone else there.

“ _ Nobody with that much money is ever truly innocent, _ ” he’d said to Jason once. “ _ Most people just don’t wear their sins with pride. _ ”

And Roman Sionis has no shortage of pride. He walks into the ballroom with all the poise and class of a celebrity, with a $2,000 suit to match. His black leather mask would be more at home in an S&M club than a gala, but people’s funny looks and hushed whispers don’t faze him.

Jason wishes he could say the same about himself.

Everything, from the glittering chandeliers to the delicate appetizers to the shine of Louis Vuitton shoes, feels like an attack on who he is as a person. He’s almost 20 now, but he can still remember sleeping on damp cardboard and swiping other people’s leftovers out of the trash. Inside, he still feels like that same scrawny 12-year-old, except now he’s playing dress-up in a fancy suit.

“Look alive, little bro.”

The voice, along with the hand on his arm, startles him. Jason jumps, until he realizes it’s just Dick needling him.

“I’m as alive as I’ll ever be,” he mutters in response.

Dick smiles. “Not quite.”

It’s an infuriating smile. Dick looks so at ease with the situation, even though he looks out of place, too. Sure, he’s got on a suit like Jason and Roman, but his dress shirt is only half-buttoned underneath, and he’s foregone a tie. His slacks are practically skin-tight, as Dick demands of all his clothes. But, perhaps most embarrassing of all, he’s wearing a  _ collar. _ It’s so thin it could pass for a choker, if it weren’t for the very obvious mini padlock holding it shut. The damn thing glitters, too, like pulverized glass, reflecting every light a thousand times over.

Jason’s never been one for the spotlight. Dick goes out of his way to attract it.

While they stand together at the edge of the room, Dick reaches into his pocket. Then, casually, he offers Jason his hand, two fingers now dusted with a fine white powder. He meets Jason’s gaze with a devious grin and an arched brow.

“Wh-- No,” Jason says, hackles rising. “And cut that out. You can’t be doing that shit in a place like this, dumbass, you’ll get caught.”

Dick rolls his eyes like he always does and sniffs the powder off his fingers with a practiced swipe under the nose. “Chill. It’s just a little to make it through this snore-fest.”

Already, Jason can feel his blood pressure start to rise.

“You know how I feel about that stuff,” he says. “Could you  _ please _ take your drug-addicted ass somewhere else if you’re gonna coke up?”

“Whatever,” Dick says. “I know how to handle myself. Don’t worry; I’m not gonna drop dead like your junkie mom.”

Something inside Jason snaps. Dick is normally an asshole, but going for his mom? That’s low. He doesn’t know if it’s the stress of going to a non-underworld party or if Dick’s just extra drugged-up and careless tonight, but it doesn’t matter. He straightens up to his full height — a few inches taller than Dick by now — and rounds on him.

“What’d you say?” His voice comes out loud enough to turn some heads. In the moment, he finds he doesn’t care. “Huh? What was that? Say it again,  _ Dick! _ ”

Jason shoves him with both hands. Dick stumbles, but even then, he looks so lackadaisical that it almost hurts. Or maybe that’s just Jason’s soon-to-be-burst blood vessels talking. Dick steadies himself and meets Jason’s bared teeth with an easy smile.

“Baby brother, people are staring.”

“I don’t care!” Jason says.  _ Shouts, _ more like. “Say it again! Say that shit again, you fucking—”

“ _ Boys, _ ” comes a voice from behind him. “Enough.”

Jason spins on his heel and comes face-to-mask with his adoptive father. The leather makes him look impassive, but Jason can tell he’s not pleased. It makes him falter for just a moment, long enough to realize his hands are balled into tight fists. He consciously tries to relax them.

“Sorry, Daddy,” Dick says, and Jason tenses up all over again.

In the resulting silence, he can feel all eyes on them. Even the band has stopped playing. And there it is: proof that he doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong around soft conversations about lake houses and yachts, around pretty women in pearls and men who only raise their voices after too much evening brandy. All over again, he sticks out, just like he used to as a smelly little kid in ripped clothes huddled in the corner of the public library.

_ You can take the kid out of Crime Alley, but one way or another, he’ll find his way back. _

Jason turns and stiffly walks out of the room.

  


The walls outside the mansion are made of nice, sturdy brick. Jason punches them until his knuckles start bleeding. It’s hardly enough to calm his racing heart. No, the only thing that’d do that right now would be pummeling Dick’s pretty face. Since he can’t have that, he fishes a cigarette out of his pocket.

He holds it up to his lips, but when it comes time to strike the lighter, he can’t manage to make a flame. He doesn’t know if it’s because his injured hands are shaking so much or if the frigid March winds are responsible for snuffing it out, but after about twenty unsuccessful attempts, he decides he’s never getting it lit. Figures. Just another way for life to fuck him over. In a bout of frustration, he curses, whipping around to chuck the lighter as far as it’ll go—

—right at someone’s head. By the time Jason registers their presence, it’s already too late, and he heats up with shame at the thought of dragging some poor, unrelated bastard into his fit. Much to his surprise, though, the person catches it just before it hits his face. When he lowers his hand, Jason is greeted with the sight of someone closer to his age than the wrinkled old tycoons upstairs.

The boy has a soft face. Almost pretty. He’s short, too, over a full head shorter than Jason himself. Probably a teenager. God, did he almost hit a kid?

Jason shuffles his feet. “Uh.”

Eloquent. He chides himself for his idiocy and tries to think of something clever to say. Luckily, the kid beats him to it.

“They made me umpire in sophomore year,” he says with a sheepish smile. “I was better at that than any of the other positions.”

“Hunh? Uh— Oh.” Jason lowers the cigarette away from his mouth and kicks at some dirt on the ground. “Yeah. That makes sense. Right. Er, sorry, I—”

The kid steps closer, and Jason glances up to see a sympathetic gleam in his eye. “It’s okay. Family, huh?” he says, in an I-know-the-feeling sort of way.

“...Yeah,” Jason says. “Family.”

An easy silence passes between the two of them, during which the kid offers up the lighter, thumb on the sparkwheel. Jason leans forward, and the kid cups one hand around his cigarette to shield it from the wind, sparking a light with the other. The flame lights on the first try, and Jason sucks in a few quick mouthfuls of smoke.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He has to take a few more drags to properly come back to himself. He lets the smoke drip up out of his mouth of its own accord; it helps to watch the patterns it makes as it floats up to join the rest of Gotham’s nighttime smog.

When he feels a little calmer, he says, “Jason.”

“Tim,” the kid answers.

Jason likes it that way, with no last names, so he doesn’t ask for Tim’s. Last names are what the people at the gala ask for when all they care about is how many zeroes are in each of your paychecks.

“Want one, Tim?” he asks, fishing another cigarette halfway out of his pocket. He doesn’t really want to give one up, but he feels it’s a proper apology for almost hitting someone in the face.

To his relief, Tim shakes his head. “I don’t smoke. Thanks, though.”

Instead, he holds out the lighter. Jason takes it, and notices the way Tim’s eyes linger on his battered, bloody knuckles. He pulls his hand back and stuffs the lighter into his pocket as quickly as he can.

“You should wrap that hand up.”

Jason shuts his eyes to keep from rolling them. “It’s fine. Probably the guy that owns this place cares more that I bloodied up his wall.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Tim says. “Bruce gets a bad rap sometimes, but he’s actually a pretty compassionate guy. To more than just models, I mean.”

Jason blinks. Bruce…? Shit, that’s right. This is Bruce Wayne’s shindig. Focused as he was on other things, Jason had forgotten all about who was hosting the party.

“Bruce Wayne?” he asks. “You know  _ Bruce Wayne? _ Like, personally?”

Tim shrugs. “My dad goes away a lot, and ever since mom died, he’s been weird about me being home alone. Bruce is sort of a family friend, so…”

“Shit.” Jason shakes his head. “I can’t imagine  _ the _ Bruce Wayne taking care of a kid. Uh— No offense.”

“None taken. But I’m seventeen, just so you know,” Tim says. “It’s more for dad’s peace of mind than anything. Normally I just do my own thing while I’m here.”

“Huh…” Jason mouths around his cigarette like it’ll help him gnaw on this new bit of info. “That’s… pretty cool, I guess. For him to do that.”

“Yeah.” Tim turns around, looking over his shoulder to nod at Jason. “And I know he wouldn’t mind if we poked around in his first-aid kit, so c’mon.”

“Seriously, I’m  _ fine— _ ”

“Your knuckles look like raw hamburger meat. You’re not fine. Stop being a baby.”

“I’m not a baby—”

“Afraid of a little antiseptic sting?”

Jason catches the mischievous grin on Tim’s face, but by then, it’s too late. He knows he’s already hooked.

“Ugh. I’ll show you who’s afraid, brat…”

And he follows Tim inside.

  


It doesn’t actually take long for Tim to clean and wrap his hands, but they end up lingering in a little side room by one of the kitchens for a while after that. It’s far enough from the party that none of the sound leaks through the walls, leaving them comfortably surrounded by nothing more than their own voices.

Jason learns a lot about Tim while they sit there, side-by-side on a tasteful floral print couch. He learns that he’s about to graduate early from Gotham High — not because he’s some super-genius who’s had a 4.0 GPA since kindergarten, but because he works better at his own pace than on the school’s schedule. He learns that Tim’s hobby is photography, and scrolls through his Instagram account for ten minutes straight, marveling over pictures of flowers and sunsets and a billion other things Jason never quite saw the beauty in before. He learns about his parents (dead mother and disabled father), religious views (atheist), his summer studying abroad (Paris, on Bruce Wayne’s dime), and so much more that he can hardly keep track of it all.

But more than anything else, Jason learns that he likes having someone to talk to.

He doesn’t reveal much about himself in turn. “Not much to know,” he assures Tim. He tells him the truth, more or less: that he’s been living with Roman Sionis since age 12, after being orphaned. That he’s never been to a real middle  _ or  _ high school, instead homeschooled by Roman’s extensive network of tutors. That he and his brother — also adopted — don’t get along. Every time Tim seems to want to know more, he turns the question around with a smirk and a joke.

“Come  _ on, _ ” Tim says with a roll of his eyes. “So now you’re the world’s youngest pro-wrestler, you can juggle chainsaws,  _ and _ you have the record for largest piece of game ever taken down with a single shot?”

Jason grins. “Naw, Timmy, don’t be stupid. I  _ used to be _ the world’s youngest pro-wrestler. But then those child labor laws made it so I didn’t qualify, and now it’s that Duprée bastard with the title. Keep up, will ya?”

Tim visibly bites back a smile and looks like he’s going to respond, but then his eyes shift to the left and widen by a fraction. Jason turns to look over his shoulder and immediately bolts to his feet.

“There you are,” Dick says from the doorway. He practically bounces into the room with long, light steps, and wastes no time in grabbing Jason by the arm. “I’ve been looking  _ everywhere _ for you, baby brother. Daddy wants to leave now. I know, right? But it’s late, he says. Late for an old man, maybe!”

He starts to laugh, and Jason frowns. He recognizes this level of excitability in Dick. Doubtless, he’s had more than just one snort of coke, especially if it really is late. His priority becomes getting as far away from Tim as possible before Dick says something too weird. So dedicated to his mission, he doesn’t even look back before he starts to steer Dick toward the door.

“Uh-huh,” he mumbles. “Sorry. I’m coming. Let’s go.”

But Dick, god damn him, squirms in Jason’s hold, craning his neck to look back at Tim. With his head turned that way, Jason can practically look right up his angry red nostrils.

“Wait, who’s the kid? You got a  _ frieeend, _ little bro?” Dick’s mouth curls into an evil sort of grin. Jason tries not to shiver. “Finally busting outta that shell of yours? He’s cute. Hey, sweetie. What’s your name?”

Dick turns all the way around, and Jason scrambles to grab him by the shoulders to try and force him back. A quick glance at Tim’s expression fills Jason with nausea; his eyes are wide, lips parted, all the color seeming to have drained from his face. Uptown kid’s probably never seen a druggie anywhere but on the street panhandling. Jason can practically hear the judgment start to roil around in his head.

“Dick,” he says through gritted teeth. “He doesn’t wanna talk to you. Let’s just  _ go. _ ”

That was the wrong thing to say. Dick pouts, placing a hand on his hip. “He doesn’t? Why?”

Tim averts his eyes. “Er, no, it’s just— I’m… I’m Tim. Nice to meet you.”

Dick catches Jason’s eyes with a sidelong glance. His smirk says more than his words ever could. It’s cocky. Prideful. It says,  _ I win, again. _

“It’s  _ so _ nice to meet you, too,” he drawls. Bending over, he tips Tim’s face up with a finger under his chin. “My name’s Dick. I hope my brother didn’t bore you too bad.”

“Dick…?” Tim’s brow furrows. He gently pushes Dick’s hand away. “You mean Dick, like—”

“ _ Boys. _ ”

The call is distant, calm, but it still makes both Dick and Jason instantly stand at attention. They look toward the door, but nobody else is there. Not Roman. Not yet. But he’s close.

“...I’ll catch you later, cutie,” Dick says without looking back. He starts off toward the door, hips sashaying as he goes.

Jason risks one more glance at Tim. His expression is unreadable. Something hangs unsaid, but Jason doesn’t have the time or desire to puzzle out what it is. Roman calls out for them again, and he backs up a few steps toward the walkway Dick’s already disappeared down.

“Bye,” he says on dry lips.

Tim stands up. “Can I see you again…?”

Jason’s heart pounds. He feels his veins throb with the force of it behind his injured knuckles.

Without giving Tim an answer, he turns and runs off.

  


During the limo ride back home, Jason stays quiet. It’s not like there are any gaps in the conversation, anyway; Roman fills them in on all the important conversations he’s had (not many) and then bitches about all the people he doesn’t like (many more). Dick chimes in whenever there’s a space and sometimes when there isn’t, coked up enough that he could talk to a brick wall and still find ways to keep things moving. They play off of each other like one of those high-speed tennis matches.

“—And then there was Garret and his wife. Pigs, the both of them, and only getting fatter. I’m not just talking about those investments he kept prattling on about.”

“Ugh, I  _ know, _ right? You gotta wonder how they even  _ do it _ anymore with those guts. You think he’s got a really long prick? Maybe that’d make the potato face worth it.”

“I shudder to imagine. I remember when he used to fund Maroni on the side, get in his good graces. Always waved six figures around like he was trying to compensate for something.”

“Eww, that’s hilarious! Is he giving you anything?”

“Little more than a headache. Not that he’s worth much these days, anyway. I’ve got more loyal donors that don’t sweat as much when I come around.”

“So he’s a scared little piggy? Gross. Glad I don’t have to fuck him.”

“Oh, I’d never put you through a hell like that, sweetheart, don’t you worry.”

Jason frowns toward the window and tries to tune them out. He hates conversations like this. Roman calls it “business politics,” but it all seems like one great, big meat market to him.  _ So-and-so’s a pig _ and  _ he brings in the big bucks  _ and  _ we’ll get rid of him next Thursday, cull the herd a little. _ And even that doesn’t even get into the sorts of things Dick does with his body to smooth over deals…

Soon, Jason settles into his normal rhythm of counting how many people they pass.  _ Two at the bus stop. One unlocking a door. Two more around the burning barrel. Group of prostitutes, maybe four, too fast to tell — one of ‘em's Maryana, though, for sure. Must be getting close to home… _

Sure enough, the buildings start to get taller, the streets emptier. The few people he does see tend to be False Facers, doing deals and lifting their masks to smoke and just generally hanging around to be an intimidating presence near their boss’s HQ. Normal people walk fast, with their heads down, trying not to look anyone in the eye.

They pull up to one of the tallest buildings around, all dark metal and glass. No name on the front. No logos. No identifying features at all, save for the two masked men on either side of the garage door who wave them in. The security check consists of sweeping the vehicle for any unnoticed bugs or explosives, then giving the all-clear to Roman through a cracked window. Dick winks at one of them. Jason rolls his eyes.

_ Home sweet home. _

  


By the time they get inside the elevator, even Dick has quieted down. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder in silence the whole way up. Jason counts the floor numbers as they light up.

_ Forty-seven. _

_ (Look straight ahead.) _

_ Forty-eight. _

_ (Deep breaths.) _

_ Forty-nine. _

_ (But not too loud.) _

_...Fifty. _

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal their tidy penthouse, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and open concept layout. Roman steps inside first, a dark silhouette against the light decor. Dick follows closely as always. Jason wants to stay in the elevator until it shuts, let it take him all the way back down again.

Of course he doesn’t. He clears the threshold just before the doors slide closed behind him.

Roman spins on his heel and slaps Jason hard across the face.

“Do you have  _ any idea, _ ” he starts, “how embarrassing that was? To have my son act like some— some common thug, right there in the middle of everything?”

Jason wants to point out that they were at the edge of the room, not the middle, and that Roman’s never been above hanging around “common thugs” before. Instead, he just prods his tongue at the newly-formed cut on the inside of his cheek and keeps his head down.

“I mean,  _ honestly. _ ” Roman sighs in exasperation. “You whine all the time that you don’t get to go out much, but do you think that behavior is in any way acceptable?”

Jason grits his teeth.

“Jason. I’m talking to you.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” he snaps, and jabs a finger over Roman’s shoulder at Dick’s stupid, smug face. “He talked about my mother! My  _ mother! _ ”

“I didn’t even say anything that wasn’t true,” Dick says with a roll of his eyes. “Your mom was a junkie. She OD’d. Get  _ over _ it. I did.”

Again, Jason feels the hot, clammy rush of anger take over his system. He balls his hands into fists to the point where his bandages pull too taut over his battered knuckles, but the pain only instills in him a renewed desire to beat Dick’s face in.

“Just because you’re some psycho who doesn’t care about his dead parents,” he says, “doesn’t mean  _ I  _ am! I’ve fucking warned you before, asshole, do  _ not _ talk about them!”

He doesn’t even realize how close he’s gotten to Dick, pointer finger barely an inch from his face, until Roman steps between them. Though Jason is the most muscular out of all of them, Roman still has him beat in height. But the crazy thing is, it isn’t his size that makes Jason back down. It’s the way he lays his hand on his shoulder. That one calm, precise touch hits Jason like a tub of ice down his back.

“Alright, alright,” Roman says. “Jason, stand down. Dick, don’t talk about his parents. You know how he gets.”

_ How I get, _ Jason thinks derisively. Jaw set, he forces himself to take a step back.

Dick just tosses his perfectly-done bangs out of his face and rubs under his cherry red nose. He stares at Jason with a pair of eyes that, under the mascara and the body glitter and the plucked brows, look positively dead.

“One day, little brother,” he says, “you’re gonna have to accept that  _ we’re _ your family now.”

Jason scoffs and turns away, stalking as fast as possible toward his room. Before he slams his door shut, he hears Roman — Dad — call one last thing after him.

“When you two have cooled down, we’ll discuss a proper punishment.”


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Jason gets to his room, he undoes his tie and chucks it to the floor. His suit jacket comes off next, then his shirt, which he tugs open so fast that some of the buttons come loose. He throws it all into a big heap on the floor, the way he knows Roman hates. He’ll probably regret it later. For now, though, he needs the small bit of control that comes with trashing his stupid formal outfit.

He’s so frustrated that he almost wants to laugh. Roman walks into the party in a fucking leather gimp mask, and Jason’s the one who made him look bad? What a joke.

 _“Maybe if you controlled your drug addict son,”_ he wants to say, _“we wouldn’t be in this situation.”_

He won’t say it. He knows he never will. But it’s nice to think about it anyway, to stew in the exhilaration of his made-up argument.

Jason whips around and punches his own wall this time, right on the spot next to his door that’s covered in old blood and warped, discolored wallpaper. It’s a nice, solid bit of wall, one of the few places in the penthouse where he can do that without bursting through plaster. Solid enough that it sends a whole new wave of pain up his arm when he strikes it; cursing, he steps back and shakes his hand out a few times to ease the sting.

It doesn’t take long for the pain to melt away, and with it drains his resolve. He shucks off the rest of his suit in silence and dresses in tattered old bedclothes. He has nicer pajamas to wear, but he’ll change into those later, after he washes away the sweat and blood and whatever else awaits him.

He could leave his room now, without being called. Try to make it seem like he “cooled down” quickly, maturely; hope that shows good faith. It’s tempting to get his punishment over with as soon as possible. But then, if Roman doesn’t want to do things fast, he won’t. Jason knows that well enough by now.

No, better to kill some time, draw out this small bit of privacy while it lasts. To that end, he fishes his phone out of the pocket of his discarded slacks and flops down into bed with it. Strangely enough, the notification light is flashing. He unlocks the screen with a flick of his thumb — no passcodes allowed, Roman’s rule — and reads it.

_@tjdrake is now following you!_

Jesus. It can’t have been more than 45 minutes since he was with Tim, but it already seems like their conversation took place a lifetime ago. Jason opens up Instagram and goes to Tim’s page again. Suddenly, he finds himself wishing there was a good picture of Tim himself on there. Sure, the landscapes and all are pretty, but Jason may never get to see him again. He’d like to remember what his face looks like. He wonders if Tim thinks the same about his profile, though it’s not like Jason has many posts of his own either way. He only has an account in the first place because Dick made it for him (and forced him to follow his account, of course).

It’ll be nice to see something other than Dick’s pouting face and exposed skin on his feed for once.

A knock on the door, and Jason thinks _speak of the devil_ when Dick calls for him from the other side. “Daddy wants to see us,” he says in an annoyingly calm voice.

Jason locks his phone and sets it face-down on the bed. After a second’s thought, he opens it again, closes out of the app, and puts the phone in his bedside drawer. He wipes his suddenly-sweaty palms on his pants and steps out of his room.

Dick hasn’t changed much; he’s shirtless, but otherwise still dressed in his nice slacks, shiny shoes, and dumb little collar. What’s more, he makes a pointed effort of looking Jason up and down, at the holes in his clothes and the little rough patches where he hasn’t been able to get the blood out of the dark fabric. Then, wordlessly, he turns and starts to walk down the hall.

Jason follows a few steps behind. Normally, he’d be content to walk in silence, but with Tim’s Instagram still at the forefront of his mind, he realizes something.

_Dick knows. He saw._

Jason has to bite his tongue to keep from cursing.

“…Dick,” he says after they turn a corner or two. Even though they’re alone, he doesn’t dare speak louder than a whisper. “Could you just… Could you not tell Dad? About… you know?”

Dick only glances back at him for a second, but that’s long enough to see the way his face pinches up in delight. “About your _friend?_ ”

“He’s not— We were just talking. Seriously,” Jason says. “I just don’t want him to flip out more, okay? Please.”

Dick stays quiet for so long that Jason starts to wonder if he heard him at all. His heart speeds up, and he clenches his clammy hands into fists so hard that it threatens to displace his bandages. Right before they make it to their destination, Dick turns to him and mouths a silent reply.

_“You owe me.”_

And he pushes the door open.

 

Roman has one very large room tucked deep into their penthouse that Jason is sure is not a normal fixture in most households. It’s lit entirely by dim lights, most of which are tinted red; all of them cast eerie shadows that drag like ink stains. The floor feels cold even through Jason’s socks. It’s made of a rough, unfinished concrete, and dips inward toward a drain near the middle of the room. But that’s not why it’s abnormal.

No, that honor goes to the furniture arranged lovingly across every free space: racks. Medical tables. St. Andrew’s crosses. And, on the walls and on shelves and tucked into big, sturdy dressers, weapons of all kinds. There are saws and drills and scalpels and pliers, wrenches and whips and gags and shears. Nothing fast like a gun, nothing merciful; just endless ways to cause agony.

Jason’s never quite agreed with his father’s hobbies.

His stomach turns when he steps inside. No matter how often he’s in here, his reaction never changes. He doesn’t want to look at Roman, not while he’s mad, but the alternative leaves him staring at a gently-swaying set of shackles that hangs from the ceiling, which does little to placate him.

Dick, in sharp contrast, walks right up to Roman and loops his arms around his shoulders.

“Get the door, Jason,” Roman says while Dick kisses him on the cheek.

Jason does, and lingers there for a moment with his hand on the knob. He thinks about running. He always thinks about running. But he remembers what happened the last time he tried that, and instead slides the deadbolt without complaint.

“Thank you.” Jason turns to look just in time to see Roman shove Dick back a few steps. He gestures toward the space in front of him. “Please.”

Jason walks across the room to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Dick. He tries to get a feel for Roman’s mood as he looks the two of them up and down, but now that he’s had time to calm _himself_ down, that’s damn near impossible.

After a moment of silent inspection, Roman steps forward and takes Jason by the hand. He jumps, but forces himself to be still as his hand is lifted and turned over. The bandages were clean before, but after that last blow in his room, a few droplets of blood have oozed out to stick them to his skin.

“You’re hurt?” Roman asks.

Jason hums in reply. Roman lifts his head, and he quickly amends, “Yes, Sir.”

“Punching walls again?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Jesus.” Roman sighs. “Anyone hear you making all that fuss?”

Jason stiffens and somehow manages not to glance over at Dick. “No, Sir.”

“You steal their bandages to do this?”

“The— The butler gave them to me. Sir.”

The few seconds after that are tense, stretching out for entire minutes in Jason’s mind, but Dick doesn’t correct him. Roman sighs again.

“What a pity that his kindness will go to waste. You’re such an inconsiderate child, Jason.”

Jason doesn’t say anything to that. He just stands stock-still while Roman yanks the bandages off of first one hand, then the other, tearing off newly-formed scabs as he does. He drops the bandages carelessly to the floor, and Jason, strangely, feels bad about that. Evidence of Tim’s generosity, discarded and useless under his father’s feet.

“Hold out your hands,” Roman says, turning around to grab something that sits on a barrel behind him. “You want to hurt yourself so bad, you may as well go all-out with it. Honestly, I’m sick of these tantrums of yours…”

He turns back with a thin, smooth piece of wood in his hands. A cane? A switch? Jason doesn’t know what to call it, but he does know what it’s for. Hands held out in front of him, he can’t stop himself from cringing. He can feel Dick’s eyes on the side of his face, but doesn’t dare turn to catch what he’s sure is a self-satisfied smirk.

“We’ll do five. Count.”

That’s all the warning Jason gets before the switch comes down across both of his knuckles. It’s a harsh blow for such thin skin, and Jason feels the impact in his bones. He can’t do much more than yelp at first, but as soon as he can force his jaw shut, he croaks out a, “One.”

 _Crack_. Yelp. “Two.”

 _Crack_. Yelp. “Th-three.”

 _Crack_. No sound, but he switches his weight to one leg and nearly doubles over. The force it takes to stand up straight again and keep his hands in place makes Jason’s knees shake. “Ffffour.”

 _Crack_. The noise he suppressed a second before comes out this time as a long howl. His knees buckle, and “ _Five_ ” is little more than a strained whimper.

Roman catches him by the shoulder and forces him upright. A bead of blood drips off the end of the switch and onto the floor. More, larger drops splash down from Jason’s hands, which look now like they’ve been torn open by a wildcat. Roman may as well have just carved him up with a knife. He wrinkles his nose and manages to choke back a sob, but can do nothing about the tears gathered in his eyes.

“Oh, hush,” Roman says. “If you can do it to yourself, you can take it from someone else. Now, hold them out again. Palms up.”

Jason blinks through his tears. “Wh-what…? I th-thought you said—”

“That was your punishment for punching walls,” Roman says without missing a beat. “You still need your punishment for making a spectacle of yourself in front of everyone.”

Jason lowers his head and bites his lip, trying hard not to show off how terrified he is. Dick giggles.

“Don’t be too happy; you’ll still get yours,” Roman tells him. “Now. Jason. Up.”

The simple act of opening his hands sets Jason’s nerves on fire with pain. He starts to breathe faster. If the backs of his hands hurt that bad, how much worse will his palms be? He doesn’t want to do this. He wants to hug his hands to his chest and mutter “ _no, no, no_ ” until everything stops. But he knows that won’t happen. If Roman has to force him, things will be ten times worse, so he makes himself keep still despite all of his instincts begging him otherwise.

When the first blow lands on his outstretched palms, he _screams_. He lowers himself almost all the way to the floor, then straightens up again, tears spilling over his cheeks.

“Jason.” Roman is calm. Collected. Like he’s speaking to an unruly toddler. “Count.”

“One!” Jason cries. “God, _fuck_.”

“Language.”

Crack. Another scream. “ _Two!_ ”

Crack. He sobs. “Please. Please, Daddy, please—”

“Do not test me right now, Jason.”

Jason sucks in a shaky lungful of air and tries not to hyperventilate. “Three. I’m sorry, I—”

Crack. Another scream. “— _Daddy!_ Four! Sorry!”

Roman doesn’t even seem to bat an eye. “Open your hands, son,” he says.

Jason hadn’t realized they were closed. His arms tremble in protest when he tries to force his fingers open, and each centimeter they move feels like he’s breaking himself apart. By now, the blood streaks in long rivers all the way down to his elbows.

Crack. He falls to his knees.

“ _Five,_ ” he sobs. “Five, f-five, god, oh my god, oh—”

Roman steps forward. Jason hugs his hands to his body, shaking like he’s just been plucked out of a frozen lake. He expects another blow, a scolding, a third surprise punishment, but all he gets is Roman ruffling his hair.

“Good boy. There, all done. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Jason bites his lips to keep from saying something he regrets. He sniffs hard to try and get some of the snot off his face. It doesn’t do much good.

Blessedly, Roman lets him slide without answering. He practically coos at Jason, petting his head. “Now, you just have to stay while I punish your brother. Then you can go get cleaned up. Alright?”

It’s sickening. It’s god damn sickening, the way he switches from cold to fatherly at the drop of a hat. Like he just washed Jason’s mouth out with soap, or gave him a few smacks across the bottom, or something. Like _Jason’s_ the one being a baby for crying about it.

He nods anyway. “Ye-yes, Sir.”

Roman pats his head twice more, then steps away. “Watch, please,” he says.

Jason doesn’t like Dick. Sometimes he thinks he hates him. But, vindictive as he can get, he still doesn’t like to see him get punished. If it were up to him, he’d squeeze his eyes shut and try to block out the rest of the world. That’s why Roman makes him watch, he figures. Keep him in the moment. It’s just as much a part of his punishment as anything physical.

Blinking away tears, Jason looks up.

Roman puts the switch away on a rack, then turns to the barrel he’d been standing beside when Jason and Dick came in. He takes off the lid, and Jason doesn’t need to stand up to know what’s inside. Dick’s expression, which changes from calm to upset in half a second, tells him everything.

Dick hates the drowning punishment.

“Daddy, _no,_ ” he whines, shuffling from foot to foot with his arms folded across his chest. “It was Jason’s fault. This isn’t fair!”

“Life’s not fair, pumpkin.” Roman beckons for him with two curled fingers. “C’mere.”

“I didn’t even _do_ anything!”

“You know damn well what upsets your brother, and you did it anyway,” Roman says. There’s an edge to his voice that makes Jason shrink in on himself even though he’s no longer the target. “Don’t make me walk over there.”

Dick huffs, looking around the room like an out might present itself. It doesn’t. It never does. He settles on glaring at Jason while he closes the short distance between himself and their father.

Roman snatches him up by the back of his hair. “Don’t look at him. This is about you. You understand me?”

Dick huffs again. He looks away and refuses to answer, like a particularly petulant child. Jason wants to tell him to cut it out, just get it over with so they can both leave, but he doesn’t dare speak.

“Hey.” Roman tugs harder. Dick screws his eyes shut. “ _Hey_. You know what you did wrong. Say it.”

Dick mumbles something. Roman slaps him upside the head, then grabs his hair again. Finally, Dick speaks. “I talked about his _dumb whore_ mother.”

Any feelings of sympathy that might have been developing in Jason’s gut fly out the window. He and Dick fix each other with a mutual glare all the way up until Roman shoves Dick’s head down into the barrel.

The reaction is instantaneous. Dick struggles so hard that water starts to slosh out of the over-full barrel. A few droplets land on Jason; it’s cold. Dick’s arms move from his chest to the mouth of the barrel, but no matter how hard he grabs and yanks and slaps at it, it makes no difference. Roman is stronger than he is. He keeps Dick there, not giving an inch, until Dick’s body twists and he starts to stomp at the ground with one foot.

As soon as he yanks him back up, Dick gasps for air. Coughing and spluttering, mascara running in ugly rivulets down his face, perfect hairdo wet and ruined, he looks a mess. Jason almost feels bad for him, but his residual anger stamps that feeling out.

 _Serves you right,_ he thinks to himself like a mantra. _Serves you right. You deserve it. Serves you right…_

“Now,” Roman says, voice oozing a measured kind of patience. “Would you like to try that again?”

“Dad _dy_ —”

Roman dunks him back down. Dick redoubles his efforts this time, kicking the barrel with a pointed shoe, but it doesn’t do any good. He stays underwater so long that Jason starts to think he might pass out, but right when it edges on “too long,” Roman pulls him up again. Dick’s gargling breaths are interspersed with sobs.

“Why are you in trouble?” Roman asks, unmoved.

“— _Sorry!_ I’m _sorry,_ okay?!”

From his position on the floor, Jason can see Dick’s arm muscles tense as he holds himself up with the edge of the barrel. His knuckles are stark white.

“I’m not the one you need to be apologizing to,” Roman says.

Dick frowns and kicks the barrel so hard that some water splashes out over the side. Jason wants to tell him he’s being an idiot who’s making things harder on himself, but before he can speak, Roman does.

“Hands behind your back.”

Dick’s nails dig in to the wood of the barrel. He shakes his head.

“Hands behind your back,” Roman repeats, “or I’ll cuff them there.”

Sobbing, Dick does what he’s told. Jason can see him trembling from head to toe.

Roman dunks him again. He holds Dick down for almost a minute, lifts him for a few seconds, then repeats the process. He must do it almost five times before Dick speaks — shouts, so loud that the echo makes Jason’s ears ring.

“Sorry, Jason, I’m sorry, Jason, I’m sorry!” He heaves a few ugly, shaking sobs, eyes closed, positively drenched all down his front. The water trails down his bare chest and soaks into his pants like he’s pissed himself.

(Jason shouldn’t like the sight of Dick broken down for once. His mother would be disappointed in him. But she’s not here now.)

“For what?” Roman asks.

“For talking about your mom! I won’t do it again!” His shoulders bounce up and down with the force of his crying fit. “I’m _sorry,_ please _stop…!_ ”

Jason stares. Roman turns to look at him. “Well?”

He could refuse to accept the apology. Let him suffer for a little while longer, or a lot of a while. Roman would keep it up for as long as Jason told him to. It’d be only fair. It’d hardly scratch the surface of fixing what Dick’s done to him all these years, hardly be half of what he deserves for bringing his late mother into things.

He remembers Tim’s smile. The Instagram account without any pictures of his face.

“…’Kay,” he says. “Okay. It’s fine. Apology accepted.”

Roman releases Dick and lets him fall to his knees.

 

* * *

 

Long past the end of the party, when the driveway empties of limos and the manor’s lights go out, Tim stays awake, bathing in the glow of the Batcomputer. For hours, he assembles his newest collage, countless articles and newspaper clippings all centered around one bold front page:

**_TRAGIC ACCIDENT AT HALY’S CIRCUS: TWO PERFORMERS DEAD_ **

_Pictured: Dick Grayson, age 8, son of the deceased, shortly before being taken into police custody._

The black and white photograph sandwiched between the two lines shows a scene captured from outside of the big top. The foreground shows a crying child wrapped in a blanket, being guided toward a cop car by an officer. In the background, police tape blocks off the path to the tent, but crowds of people still mill around as closely to the scene as possible, while an officer shuffles them back.

There’s not much else to see. Not unless you know where to look.

Tim himself misses it the first few times, but eventually he catches the way the second cop stands slightly apart from the onlookers. He realizes then that he’s not lifting his arm to keep people clear of the scene; he’s taking something from someone.

Someone in a fancy black suit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 3, everybody! give it up for chapter 3!
> 
> time for our first taste of smut in this story. be warned: it's very non-consensual.

Jason procrastinates on leaving his room the next day. From the sound of it, so does Dick. It’s usually easy to hear him chattering from almost anywhere in the penthouse, but today, he only hears doors open and close as Roman gets ready by himself. He leaves early, departure signaled by the soft whirr of the elevator. For hours afterward, the penthouse sits in still silence.

It’s oppressive, that silence. Normally Jason doesn’t mind the quiet, but today, all it does is give him more time to think. As if he needs that.

Dick actually kept his secret. He’s not sure what to make of that small bit of kindness. It’s not like it was a selfless act — Dick made that clear enough — but then, if he didn’t cash in on it to get himself out of his least favorite punishment, what else will he have Jason do? He hates being indebted to Dick for that very reason. It was stupid to allow himself to get into this situation in the first place.

But… But it was nice. _Dangerously_ nice, having someone like Tim to talk to, someone who doesn’t spend half his life in a mask. For a little while when they were together, Jason had almost been able to pretend he was a normal teen with a normal life. Thinking about Tim stirs in him a feeling similar to the beginning stages of addiction. And he’s spent his whole life fighting addiction in all its forms, but maybe…

Maybe just this once, he can give in.

His sore, bandaged hands shake when he picks up his phone, but Jason persists. He holds it long enough to navigate back to Tim’s page and send one small DM.

_jaybae666: Hey._

He’s tempted to add something like “It’s Jason from the party,” but he’s sure Tim remembers his username. It’s embarrassing enough. He’d been quick to let Tim know that Dick had picked it out for him when he made his account — all Jason’s ideas had been “too boring,” apparently — but that didn’t stop Tim from shooting him an absolutely shit-eating grin.

_“Jaybae, huh? Can I call you that?”_

_Jason’s face flooded red. “You better fucking not.”_

_“I dunno. It has a nice ring to it. And the number of the beast? I think I cut myself on that edge.”_

_“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. What’s the J in yours stand for? Jackass?”_

_“The one and only Timothy Jackass Drake.”_

_A beat. They stared at each other: Tim still faintly smiling, and Jason, with one corner of his mouth quirked upward if you squint._

_“Okay,” Tim said after a long moment. “No ‘bae.’ But how about just Jay?”_

_“...Yeah,” Jason said. “Just Jay is fine.”_

The memory knots something up inside of Jason’s chest in a way he doesn’t quite understand. There was something about how genuine Tim seemed, like there really was nothing malicious behind his teasing, that had been… refreshing. Surprisingly so.

He lies in bed next to his phone until it buzzes beside his head. Too quick, he snatches it back up.

_tjdrake: Hey, Just Jay. :)_

Jason bites his lip. Despite himself, he smiles.

_jaybae666: Good to know you remembered._

_jaybae666: Timothy Jackass._

He sits up against his headboard while he waits for a reply, phone held up by his folded knees. Tim only takes a minute to send another message.

_tjdrake: Sorry, sorry! I promise I’m not still laughing at your username._

_jaybae666: Suuure._

_jaybae666: Not like it matters. My brother’s the one who takes this app seriously, not me._

Jason pauses and frowns. He really doesn’t want to address that coked-up elephant in the room, but better sooner than later, he figures. Let Tim know it’s alright to blow him off if he doesn’t want to deal with the kid from the crazy family.

_jaybae666: Speaking of him. Sorry about last night._

_jaybae666: I told him to cut it out. But he never listens._

_jaybae666: I’d say “I promise we’re not like that all the time,” but tbh I’d be lying._

_jaybae666: Not that I do that crap! I’m no addict._

_jaybae666: Ugh what I’m trying to say is you don’t gotta pretend to be nice to me if that freaked you out. I’m a big boy. I can take it._

He stops himself before he can vomit anything else onto the screen. Normal people don’t have to worry about this kind of shit, he’s sure of it. And Tim, no offense to him, is a dude that looks nothing short of perfectly normal.

Which is why his reply surprises Jason.

_tjdrake: Jason, I wouldn’t pretend to be nice to you. I had fun last night._

_tjdrake: We all have crazy family members — trust me, LOL. I am the LAST person who can judge you for that._

Again, it sounds disarmingly sincere. Jason is used to lies and duplicity from the people around him, not… _that._ Granted, Tim could just be a better liar than he seems, but…

God. Normal people probably also don’t worry constantly about who’s scheming behind their back. Jason rolls his eyes and gets back to typing, pecking at the keyboard with his fingers to avoid cradling the phone in his injured palms.

_jaybae666: Oh yeah? You’re gonna have to tell me some stories._

_tjdrake: Well, I used to have this aunt…_

Time passes in an easy way after that, just like it did last night. Their conversation comes just as smoothly via text as it did face-to-face. It’s a Saturday, so Tim doesn’t have school to distract him, and Jason, well. Jason doesn’t do much unless his father tells him to. With all that free time between the two of them, minutes stretch into hours, all the way until morning melts into afternoon. Jason only realizes how late it’s gotten when a loud growl erupts from his stomach.

_tjdrake: And I never even got the chance to tell him what the right answer was. He just ran off hooting and hollering like he won the lottery. Over a D+!_

_jaybae666: Hey, let the kid live his dreams, lol._

_jaybae666: But hold that thought. Gonna grab something to eat._

_tjdrake: Kk._

Again, Jason closes the app entirely and shuts his phone in his bedside table before leaving the room. He pads through the penthouse, too absorbed in his thoughts about his conversation with Tim to notice much of anything around him.

That is, until Dick calls out for him from the living area.

“Baby brother, you’re finally awake.”

Jason stops dead in his tracks. He turns to see little more than one of Dick’s arms slung over the back of a couch, a few glittery silver bracelets dangling off his wrist. He gulps.

When he doesn’t speak fast enough, Dick lifts a slender finger and beckons him forward. “C’mere. Come sit with me.”

Mechanically, Jason walks forward and rounds on the couch. Dick is sprawled out over it, head on one armrest, feet on the other. Today, he has on a crop top that rides up high enough that Jason can see most of his chest, as well as a pair of denim shorts that are a size or two too big. It makes the rest of him look much leaner in comparison; while Dick has well-defined abs, it’s also easy to count each of his ribs.

He stares up at Jason with half-lidded eyes. If he’s drugged-up, it’s not coke this time. The way he moves is languid, pulling himself up limb by long limb until he’s sitting upright. He pats the cushion next to him. Jason hesitates for a moment before sitting down.

Immediately, Dick pushes him against the back of the couch, clinging to his right side. One hand rests on his shoulder, while the other traces little patterns onto Jason’s chest. It sets his heart racing right away, and he feels his empty stomach turn.

“Dick—”

“Baby brother,” Dick mutters into his shoulder, “I want you.”

So this is how today is going to go. With a sinking feeling, Jason realizes he’s not going to get back to his room any time soon — not alone, at least.

“Dick,” he tries anyway. “I’m hungry. C’mon.”

He wiggles his shoulder to try to dislodge Dick, but it does no good. If anything, it makes Dick hold onto him even tighter. It makes sense that he’d be craving affection after last night—

_“Not tonight, sweet pea,” Roman said, shaking Dick loose from his pant leg. “Daddy’s tired.”_

_“Please,” Dick gulped through thick tears. “Please, Daddy, I’ll make it up to you, I’ll make it so good, I—”_

_“Good_ night, _Dick.”_

_The door shut behind him, leaving Dick and Jason alone in the red light of the torture chamber._

—but that doesn’t mean Jason wants to be the one to give it. That’s never what he wanted.

Heedless of his reservations, Dick leans in to pepper Jason’s neck with kisses. They start out quick, chaste, but morph into more passionate things with teeth and tongue. Dick slings one leg over both of Jason’s, trailing a hand down his chest. Jason shuts his eyes and grits his teeth.

“Not today,” he says, moving to grab Dick’s wrist just as he reaches his waistband. “Please. My hands—”

In the blink of an eye, Dick snatches Jason’s chin up so hard that his nails leave little indents in his skin. He lifts his head to meet Jason’s gaze, and for a second, there’s nothing but raw, unbridled rage there. Just as quickly as it appeared, it melts, and then he’s left with Dick’s usual sharp-toothed smirk.

“You’re gonna fuck me,” he says, “or I’m gonna tell Daddy about _your_ new fuck-buddy.”

Jason’s mouth opens as far as possible with Dick holding him so hard. He wants to say something like “things aren’t like that with Tim,” or “why is it always about sex with you,” or “leave me the _fuck alone,_ you creep,” but nothing comes out.

Nobody ever says no to Dick Sionis.

When he clamps his lips shut, Dick takes that as the victory it is. Smiling, he leans forward to press their mouths together.

They’re not really brothers in anything but the most legal sense. Jason’s known Dick for less than a decade, and with their age difference, it’s not like they grew up together. But, still, kissing him feels wrong, like he’s on the side of a line that should never have been crossed. Maybe it’s Dick’s insistence on calling him a brother, or maybe Jason’s broken in some way he’s too stupid to figure out, but he doesn’t understand how Dick can kiss him so shamelessly.

He kisses back, though. He always does. Right now, he has even less of a choice than usual. His hands lay immobile in his lap, and he’s not half as passionate or skilled as Dick, but he moves his lips and tongue anyway, playing off of his older brother’s direction.

Dick sinks into the kiss, throwing himself over Jason until he’s straddling him properly. He cups Jason’s head in both hands and pecks a sloppy trail over his cheek and to his ear.

“Touch me,” he whispers.

Jason lets out a breath through his nose and ducks his head down. He doesn’t move fast enough, so Dick takes his hands and pulls them around to press against his backside. It hurts so bad that Jason can’t help but hiss in pain; Dick just grinds down against him like nothing’s wrong.

“Touch me, little brother,” he says again, rolling his hips in a slow, steady motion. “I know you want to. You’re getting hard already. I can tell.”

Despite himself, Jason knows Dick is right. His body reacts far better than his brain to the idea of a warm body bouncing around in his lap. He feels himself harden in his too-thin pajama pants. Carefully, more to take his mind off of his own body than anything, Jason squeezes Dick’s ass, using his fingers instead of his sore palms.

“That’s right,” Dick sighs, head drifting down to Jason’s neck now. His hot breaths make it feel like Jason’s sweating. “You can do whatever you want. Big brother understands. You’re so horny, little bro…”

The way Dick talks when they sleep together is Jason’s least favorite part. Somehow, no matter how hard Dick comes onto him or how many times Jason says no, it’s always his fault in the end. What does Dick see in him that he can’t see in himself? It’s not like he’s lying. Dick’s hand, cupping his hard cock through his pants, proves that much. Jason tosses his head back, nostrils flaring, and Dick takes that opportunity to yank his clothes down and expose his erection to the air.

“Ooh…” He presses the very tip of his index finger to the slit in Jason’s cockhead. “Look how happy you are to see me already! My cute little brother has such a nice, chubby cock…”

Jason flushes, glaring down at Dick. “Do you have to talk like that?”

Dick ignores him, rubbing at the tip of his cock until it throbs. The way he giggles should make Jason’s length shrink in shame, but, traitorously, it stays rigid and upright.

“Look, it’s twitching for me! Hey, does your new friend know you’re a sick fuck who gets off to his own brother?”

Jesus. The mood whiplash hits Jason like a slap in the face. Sometimes he wonders whether Dick means to insult him or if he just doesn’t know the difference, but today, his intent is clearly malicious. He wishes he’d just _shut up_ and get on with it, but of course things can’t be that easy. Not for him. Never for him.

He shuts his eyes and looks away, which only serves to make Dick laugh some more.

“He doesn’t! No wonder he’s still talking to you.” Dick nuzzles his neck and grips his cock properly, giving it a few skillful strokes. The worst part about it is how genuinely _good_ it feels. “You know he’s gonna find out eventually, right? Maybe I’ll tell him. I can post a picture of us together, wouldn’t that be fun?”

Jason can’t relax, even with Dick jerking him off with all the expertise of someone who’s been fucking around practically their whole life. He knows he’s right. He can’t keep talking to Tim and expect to hide his family from him forever, but god, he just wants to pretend for a little while longer. Is that so bad?

“I— I don’t even have his number,” he lies. “I don’t know how to get in touch with him. It was just a one-night thing.”

“Oh, so his Insta isn’t…” Dick pulls back, fishes his rose gold phone out of his shorts, and flicks on the screen. “... _tjdrake?_ He followed me last night, and it’s funny, ‘cause that account’s following you, too…”

Fuck. God _fucking_ damn it. When the hell did Tim follow Dick? And why? The way he was looking at him last night, Jason figured he was intimidated by him, but did he just miss the signs of attraction there? That’d figure. Why care about Jason when he could upgrade to the skinnier, prettier model?

The look on his face must say it all. Dick grins in that “ _checkmate_ ” kind of way.

“So,” he says. “Whaddya say? Selfie time?”

“What do you _want?_ ” Jason snaps. “Obviously you want _something_ or else you’d have done it already, so stop beating around the bush and just tell me!”

Dick keeps smiling, but fixes him with that dead-eyed stare again. “Oh, little bro. It’s just fun to see you squirm.”

 

_“Look at him, look— Check out his eyes!”_

_“Christ. So he’s not knocked out?”_

_“Oh, nah. He can feel_ everything. _He just can’t move — well, anything but his eyes, obviously.”_

_Pressure. Deep, all-encompassing pressure, keeping him tethered flat on his back. No way to sit up. No way to shrink away from the hands roaming over his body, under his clothes and down his pants._

_No way, even, to speak._

_“That’s kinda fucked up, Dickie. I mean, isn’t he your brother?”_

_“What can I say?” A smile, pearly white with too-sharp canines. The smile of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. “He’s cute when he squirms.”_

 

The memory leaves Jason cold and immobile. He hardly reacts when Dick kisses him. Like usual, he kisses back just enough to avoid being called noncompliant, but he can hardly match his brother’s pace and passion. Dick sighs happily into his mouth, shifting them until they’re lying down with Jason on the bottom.

_No. No. I don’t want this. Stop._

There’s nothing to keep him from talking this time, but he still can’t bring himself to. It takes all of his focus just to keep his head above water, to push the unwanted flashback away and lock it up where it belongs.

_You want it. You’re hard. Stop being overdramatic._

Dick pulls away just as Jason starts kissing with more enthusiasm. “Ah, ah, ah,” he says, pressing a finger to Jason’s lips. “I know what you can do for me if you don’t want me to snitch.”

Jason swallows. His mouth feels dry, despite everything. “What.”

“Here…”

Dick sits up on his knees and turns around to undo his shorts. He pushes them down as far as they’ll go, then bends forward, face level with Jason’s crotch, ass sticking out in his direction. He fixes him with a coy little smirk over his shoulder.

“You said you were hungry, so why don’t you eat me out? Maybe, if you’re _really_ good, I’ll even give you a kiss.” He taps Jason’s cockhead so there’s no confusion as to where that “kiss” will land. “Or maybe you could even fuck me! Wouldn’t you like that, little brother?”

Jason sucks in a shaky breath, holds it, and then answers, “...Yeah.”

“Knew you would. Now, c’mon, I’m so hot for you…”

Dick wiggles his ass, and Jason shifts position to get his arms under him so that he can sit up a bit. Dick’s hole is pink and puckered and twitches when his breath ghosts over it. Not for the first time, Jason leans forward and licks him.

That gets him a contented sigh, Dick’s breath warm on his cock. Jason doesn’t like this — can’t help but think of all the people who’ve stuck their fingers and tongues and dicks where his face is now — but he knows what his brother likes, so he sets off to do that. He moves his tongue in tiny little circles, feeling the flutter of Dick’s muscles underneath. With caution, he raises one hand to pull Dick’s cheeks apart and give himself better access. It hurts, but he ignores it, pressing his tongue inside and fucking Dick with short, quick motions.

“ _Ahh._ ” Dick presses back against his face, urging Jason’s tongue in deeper. “There you go, baby brother. So good at this. Get me nice and wet, c’mon…”

Jason hardly has the space to breathe. He manages to pull back for just long enough to gasp and wet his lips, and then he resumes what he was doing with double the intensity. Whatever it takes to get this over with as fast as possible. Dick rocks back and forth, making delicate little noises that occasionally give way to growls. The latter are a rarity; usually, he lays on the porno moans thick, whiny and feminine like he gets all his practice from _Catholic School Sluts XXX._ With Jason, though… With Jason, he’s more comfortable. Jason gets to see the cracks in his facade that nobody else ever gets close enough to look at.

He’s not sure that’s a good thing.

Dick wraps a hand around him and starts to stroke his cock hard enough to hurt, ignoring Jason’s muffled noises of protests. If anything, they only seem to rile him up more, until he sits up and reaches back to grab a fistful of Jason’s hair.

“Oh _fuck,_ just like that,” he says in a low, harsh voice. He forces Jason’s head closer, painfully so, grinding down hard against his face. “I can’t believe you’re getting off on this, you fucking freak. _Unghhh,_ just like that, just like that…!”

Jaw screaming in pain, neck forced at an odd angle, Jason tries hard to keep up with his brother’s pace. _Just come,_ he thinks, _just come,_ kicking out at the armrest, toes curling in his socks.

But of course, Dick would never make things easy on him. Keeping hold of Jason’s hair, he lifts his hips and barks, “Tell me how much you love it.”

Jason gasps for breath, drool streaking down his face. He hates dirty talk, especially with Dick. All he can manage is a strained, “I— I love it.”

“Boring.” Dick lowers his hips, and Jason obediently licks him before he pulls up again. “You love eating your older brother’s ass. Say it.”

“I…”

Even though they’ve done this so many times before, it never gets any easier. Jason’s face flushes a deeper red. When he doesn’t answer, Dick twists his cock hard enough to make Jason arch in pain.

“You _love_ eating your _older brother’s_ ass. _Say it._ ”

“D-Dick, please, _fuck,_ it hurts—”

“It’s supposed to. Say it!”

“I love eating your ass! God!”

Dick lets up a little bit. “Whose ass?”

“M-my older brother’s.” Jason squeezes his eyes shut and wills his tears of pain away. “I love eating my older brother’s ass. Happy?!”

With a pleased sigh, Dick starts to stroke him again. His grip remains firm, but only to the point where, maddeningly, it feels good. Heat coils up in Jason’s gut with every jerk of Dick’s wrist, every twisting pass of his palm over his cockhead. He wishes Dick would sit back down and let him keep tonguing his asshole, but the way he stays poised just a couple of inches too high tells him he’s expecting to hear more.

Jason tries to put his rational brain to rest and let his baser instincts take over. He needs to stop thinking for a while. It’s the only way he can do this.

“Y-you’re so… hot,” he starts. _Just tell him what he wants to hear._ “I’ve— I’ve been thinking about your ass all day, big brother. Please, please let me fff… fuck you with my tongue. I… I wanna make you come. Please.”

Dick giggles, reaching down to fondle Jason’s balls. “Don’t you wanna shoot off in me?”

Jason shakes his head. His lips brush against Dick’s thigh when he does.

“No. Not unless you want it.”

“And why’s that?”

They’ve played this game before. Jason knows exactly what to say. He mumbles into Dick’s skin.

“What was that, baby bro?”

“Don’t deserve it,” he says, louder. “Just your stupid, fat, ugly fucktoy.”

He can hear Dick’s grin, even though he can’t see his face. “You’re lucky I let you do this much, huh? And you’re leaking because of it. So fucking disgusting, Jay.”

Right on time, Jason feels Dick spread his precum down his shaft, using it as lube. This is the part he hates maybe even more than the dirty talk itself: the part where he starts to accept all over again that it’s true.

“I’m— I’m lucky,” he says. “Just, _please,_ lemme put my tongue in you, big brother. Lemme lick your ass. I want it, god, I want it so bad, I—”

“Okay, okay!” Abruptly, Dick sits down, grinding against Jason’s mouth. “Shut up and put your money where your— Well, you know.”

Thank god. Jason immediately goes at Dick with all he’s got, years of experience guiding the way. Dick laughs at his enthusiasm right up until Jason’s tongue catches just right on the rim of his hole, at which point he stutters and moans. A few repeats of the motion has Dick lost in pleasure, Jason’s cock forgotten in his loose fist. Cautiously, Jason lifts both hands to hold Dick’s hips, fighting his way through the strain it puts on his injuries.

“I’m— _Ohh._ ” Dick runs a hand through the sweat and trail of hair leading up from Jason’s cock to his stomach. It’s almost tender, until he starts to scrape at the skin with his nails. “So… So glad you remember how, baby brother… My best baby brother ever, mmn, like that, _like that…_ ”

Dick’s muscles flutter around his tongue, but it’s not enough, not fast enough. Bracing himself for the sting, he lifts a hand and slaps it against Dick’s ass. Dick _howls,_ arching his back and grinding down hard against Jason’s face. He hears the telltale _slap-slap-slap_ of Dick jerking himself off.

“Again. Again!”

Jason complies. Dick whines, high-pitched and loud.

“ _Daddy,_ ” he sighs. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—!”

“Yes?”

The new voice makes Jason freeze. Dick does, too, but only for a second. Then he doubles up on his efforts, bouncing up and down so hard it feels like he might break Jason’s nose. He can’t see over the back of the couch, but that’s Roman’s voice, their _father’s_ voice, when did he get home—

Dick throws his head back, cries out, and comes.


	4. Chapter 4

Even though he and Dick have done this more times than Jason cares to remember, he still feels impossibly bare as Roman approaches them. He wants to sit up, to wipe himself down and right his clothes, but with Dick still straddling him, he can’t do much. All he can do is lie there with Dick’s cum cooling on his stomach and seeping into his pants, face smeared with spit, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

It doesn’t take long for Roman to appear, peering at them over the back of the couch. His mask leaves him looking as impassive as ever, but he hums out a satisfied noise.

“Good to know you boys have made up,” he says.

Dick nods. “I can’t stay mad at my baby brother for long.”

Jason can practically hear the sugar-sweet smile on his face. Luckily, he’s had a lifetime to perfect the art of not rolling his eyes no matter how much he wants to.

“Good. That’s good.”

Roman reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind Dick’s ear, looking the pair of them up and down. Jason wants to shrink away when his gaze lingers on his cock, still stiff and exposed, but of course he can’t.

“Well, don’t let me interrupt you,” Roman says after a long moment. “Finish your brother off and then wash up for dinner, alright?”

Jason feels Dick go rigid above him. He has no delusions that Dick would’ve actually let him come had they not gotten walked in on, but of course _Daddy’s boy_ will do whatever makes him look best in Roman’s eyes.

“Yes, Daddy,” he says obediently.

“Wait, no, you don’t need—” Jason starts, but it’s too late. Roman’s hand drifts to the back of Dick’s head to push him down. Dick’s lips wrap around his cockhead, soft and wet and warm.

“Don’t let him get away with being selfish, Jason,” their father tells him, and Dick begins to move.

God, he’s good. Dick pulls no punches, not when Roman’s around to see him perform. He easily takes Jason’s whole cock into his throat, bobbing up and down with his hand chasing his lips the whole way. It’s clear he’s in it to get Jason off as fast as possible. Fine by him — he prefers it that way — but doing it all while Roman watches makes Jason’s gut curl up in knots.

He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to _be_ looked at. Biting back a groan, he slings an arm up over his face, covering everything but his mouth. Dick sucks hard and tugs at his balls and makes obscene little slurping noises that make Jason’s cock twitch, and soon he’s leaking precum for Dick to lap up. Not long now. He just needs to focus. Block the rest of the world out, and—

“Now now, Jason,” Roman tuts. “No need to be shy.”

_Damn it, why are you still here? Go get ready for dinner or something…!_

Jason clamps his lips shut to keep from saying anything as Roman pries his arm away from his eyes. He doesn’t resist, just lets Roman pin his wrist up by his head.

“There’s my good boy.”

Roman’s other hand comes to cup his chin, thumb exploring Jason’s lower lip. It’s too soft, too tender for what they’re doing, Dick’s head bobbing up and down between his legs, obscene and taboo. Jason feels a rush of guilt wash over him when his cock twitches some more. If he truly didn’t want this, that wouldn’t happen, right? He’s just as sick as everyone else. He must be.

When he parts his lips to breathe out a soft moan, Roman presses a thumb between them. It lingers in front of Jason’s teeth. Jason knows what that means, so he bites down on the fabric of Roman’s glove and lets Roman drag his hand free. It comes back to cup him again, skin to skin, impossibly hot. Jason drops the glove and obediently parts his lips again for his father’s now-bare thumb.

He sucks on Roman’s thumb the same way Dick sucks his cock. He has to close his eyes to do it; he can’t look up at Roman watching him, staring down at him from behind that impassive mask. It’s an impossibly vulnerable position, underneath both his closest family members.

 _Like a toy,_ he thinks. _Like they’re playing with some toy._

Toy or not, nobody could stay calm under Dick’s pointed ministrations for long. Jason’s toes curl, one leg bending close to his body, and he arches up, biting down on Roman’s thumb to muffle his rising cries. In response, Roman just bears down harder on his tongue until he can no longer close his mouth.

“Good boy,” Roman says again, barely a whisper, almost entranced.

Dick whines around his cock. Of course he does. He can’t stay out of the spotlight for long. Even with his eyes closed, Jason can feel Dick wiggle around on top of him, no doubt curving his back to stick his ass up like a cat in heat. He feels the light warning scrape of Dick’s teeth on the underside of his length.

In that moment, it’s too much. The pain doesn’t register as pain; instead of backing down, Jason moans with Roman’s thumb keeping his mouth open, loud and unfiltered. He bucks his hips up — a bit too carelessly, a bit too pointed — and comes in several shuddering bursts, his cock throbbing hard in Dick’s mouth. Dick lets out a muffled yelp and digs his fingers into the meat of Jason’s thigh, but he swallows with practiced ease nonetheless.

Roman keeps Jason’s arm pinned so firmly that it’s hard to move. He rubs little circles into his tongue, muttering all the while, “Good boy. Good boy.”

When he comes down from his orgasm, Jason feels clammy and vaguely nauseated.

 

He never does end up texting Tim back that night. Feels like if he so much as opened up his messages, Tim would somehow know what he’s been up to. A filth clings to Jason like a second skin even after he showers. It’s his usual post-orgasm low, the part where he regrets everything he said and did during the act. He wonders why anyone ever has sex at all, when that’s invariably the result.

As usual, his sleep is restless. Tim manages to invade his subconscious, and Jason startles awake more than once under the impression that he accidentally texted him the truth about his fucked-up family life only to realize seconds later that it was only a dream.

More of a nightmare, really.

By the time morning rolls around, he comes to the conclusion that conversing with Tim through messages over the long term probably isn’t a great idea. The more he pays attention to his phone, the more likely it is that either Roman or Dick will take notice and try to figure out what he’s up to. And maybe it’s just his years of gang training talking, but he’s never been a fan of leaving a written trail of his correspondence behind for people to pick up on, even if it’s something as benign as chatting with Tim about world history.

That in mind, he leaves the house early, fucking around in the city all day until it’s time to park himself in front of Tim’s school. He waits by a tree just past the school grounds, ignoring the glares he gets from nearby parents as he fishes a cigarette out of his leather jacket and lights up. He notices a few of them not-so-subtly lock their car doors after glancing his way.

“Bite me,” he murmurs around the cigarette filter.

When school finally lets out and a torrent of high schoolers start to flood the area, Jason stays behind his tree and peeks out periodically to try and catch a glimpse of Tim. He doesn’t want to look like he’s actively searching the crowd, but damn, is it hard to see anyone through the pack of rabid kids that tackle each other and blare music from their phones. Have schools always been this crowded, he wonders? He hasn’t been to one since 5th grade. Roman always hired private tutors for he and Dick.

Five minutes pass, then ten, and more and more students pile out of the front doors. The lot is a mess of buses and cars scooting along foot-by-foot to let kids inside then struggle onto the main road. Jason only notices the limo lingering by the very end of the property because it doesn’t move like all the other vehicles. It sits so stone-still and out of the way underneath a grove of trees that, for a second, Jason’s heart stops. It couldn’t be one of his father’s cars, could it? A few False Facers lingering nearby to figure out what he’s up to? He doesn’t think he’s been acting too suspicious, but maybe Roman got a hold of his phone somehow, or Dick told him about Tim after all.

His mind swims with the possibilities as he creeps closer to the limo. At first, it’s easy to blend in with the kids — he’s hardly out of high school himself, still fits in around sophomores and seniors — but the farther from the front of the school he gets, the more the crowd thins out. He’s just about to duck behind a nearby tree and look for an opening to get closer when the front door opens up. He freezes.

“Smoking isn’t permitted in school zones, I’m afraid,” says the driver, and Jason exhales in relief when he realizes his dad doesn’t have anyone with an English accent on staff.

Around the car comes a plain-looking old man wearing a tidy black suit. Jason recognizes him as one of the butlers from Wayne Manor. Alex? Arthur?

“Uh.” Jason mouths around his cigarette. “I’m more than 20 feet away.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the butler says, but he shoots Jason’s smoke such a dour look that Jason drops it and crushes it under his shoe anyway.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh…” _Creep on you like I’m expecting a mob hit?_ Best not to go into that much detail. He shoves his hands into his pockets and tries to play it cool. “...Wayne doesn’t have any kids, does he? ‘Least not any he knows about, I figure.”

His joke doesn’t land. The butler just stares off toward the school where it sits a ways up the hill from them. “On occasion, Master Timothy joins us after school. Our study areas are quite extensive. I believe the two of you have been acquainted?”

“Oh? Tim,” Jason says. He rolls the name on his tongue like he hasn’t been thinking it non-stop since the gala. “Yeah, no, we met. Pretty cool guy. Actually, I had something I wanted to tell him, so is it okay if I, like, chill here, or…?”

“Far be it from me to keep you from the mission you’ve been on for the past twenty minutes, at least,” the butler says.

Jason’s cheeks color red. “How long have you been—? I wasn’t— I didn’t know Tim went here. I was just, y’know, chilling. Didn’t even realize it was a school until everyone started coming out.”

The butler gives him a stare that seems to see right through his excuse, but to his credit, he doesn’t call Jason on it. “Oh, of course not. Forgive me for assuming.”

Jason nods, flashing him an awkward half-smile. “Yeah. No. ‘S cool. All is forgiven, dude.”

The guy bristles a little at “dude,” but gives him a silent nod anyway. A few moments of silence pass, during which Jason fumbles with another cigarette in his pocket. At one point he pulls it out and brings it up to his lips, but a sidelong glance from Alex-the-no-fun-butler has him tucking it away for later.

He’s about to reach his breaking point and make up some excuse to leave when finally, _finally,_ Arthur perks up and smiles at someone in the distance. Jason turns around just in time to see Tim hurrying down the hill, hair out of place, open backpack hanging half-off his shoulder.

“Sorry I’m late, Alfred,” he says, and Jason thinks, _Alfred, that’s it!_ “Mrs. Piasta kept me after to talk about some extra credit. I tried to tell her I— Oh. Hi, Jason.”

Tim straightens and blinks over at him like he hadn’t even realized he was there at first. Jason pulls a hand from his pocket and gives a little wave.

“Yo.”

“Master Jason just happened to be in the area,” Alfred says in a tone that suggests he doesn’t quite believe it while he opens the car door, “when he realized he had something he’d like to share with you.”

Jason frowns. “Uh, just Jason’s fine.”

“He won’t listen,” Tim says with a smile, tossing his bag into the back seat. “I wondered why I never heard back from you. What’s up?”

Tim stands straight and looks at him with those wide, curious eyes, that smile still playing on his lips like they’re sharing some private joke just by being around each other. Jason immediately realizes he didn’t prepare for this moment at all.

“Uhh…” He scratches the back of his head, averting his eyes. “Well, I guess I just… Er… See, the thing is…”

“The thing” doesn’t manifest out of nowhere like he hopes it will. Alfred speaks up in between his rambling little nothing-sentences.

“Shall I give you two a moment?”

“Yeah, sure,” Tim says before Jason can answer. Alfred nods and walks back around the car to get into the driver’s seat. The soft _clunk_ of the door shutting leaves them staring at each other in total silence.

It feels way too intimate. Which is dumb, because they’re around at least a few hundred people right now, and he doesn’t even want to talk to Tim about anything inappropriate. So why is it this hard just to spit something out?

 _I really need more friends,_ Jason thinks.

“I, uh, just wondered if you wanted to maybe hang out?” he asks.

He glances up to see Tim blink a few more times. “Hang out…?”

“As friends!” Jason blurts far too quickly. “I’m not, like, trying to be weird or— Not like you look like you like guys or anything— Not that it’s a problem if you _do,_ I just—”

“ _Jason_ ,” Tim says, cutting him off. “I got what you meant.”

Jason blows his bangs out of his eyes with an upward puff of air and tries not to blush so hard he looks sunburnt. “Right. Yeah. No, I figured. Just, like, making sure.”

Tim looks like he might burst into laughter at any second. Bless him, though, he doesn’t. “I mean, I have homework, but…”

“Shit. ‘Course you do. Forget it, it’s cool,” Jason says, already starting to turn away.

“Jay, wait!” Tim stops him with a hand on his shoulder. For whatever reason, it nearly takes the wind out of Jason’s lungs. He looks back to see Tim shooting him a guilty smile. “I was gonna say, I wasn’t planning on getting much done of it tonight _any_ way…”

Some of the tension drains out of him. Jason smiles. “Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Cool.”

 

Tim manages to convince Alfred that he’ll still be back in time to do whatever it is he had planned with Wayne — “One-on-one tutoring,” he called it, which sounded a little suspect to Jason, but he knows well enough not to question things like that. Then they start walking with no set destination in mind, happy to make small talk while they head downtown. Apparently, Tim is just as happy for his company as Jason is with Tim’s.

That’s what he thinks at first, anyway. But then, in the silence after some comment about a shitty-looking storefront mannequin, Tim asks him a question.

“So, about your brother,” he starts, and Jason thinks, _This is it._ “He’s Dick Grayson, right? The one from the trapeze act that had that accident years back?”

Jason tries not to sound too unenthusiastic. “Yep. That’s him. Goes by Sionis now, though.”

“I thought he looked familiar! I went to one of those shows he did with his family, the year his parents died. I mean, I was only a year old or something, so I don’t really _remember_ it, but—”

Jason sighs and stops walking. Tim, startled, nearly walks into his back.

“Jason…?”

“Look,” he says, pulling out a cigarette and twirling it between his fingers. “I can hook you up with him if you want, alright? Just don’t pretend you like me ‘cause you figure it’ll get you closer to him.”

Tim looks confused. Like, almost _genuinely_ confused, to the point where Jason briefly feels bad for accusing him. But it’s not like he’s new to this game, and he’s not 16 anymore. No need to beat around the bush about it like some idiot in denial.

“Hook me…? No,” Tim says, flushing. “Nonono. That is _not_ what I meant—”

“Seriously,” Jason says, sticking the cigarette in his mouth and turning around. He forces his tone to come out evenly, like he couldn’t care less one way or the other what Tim wants from him. “It’s fine. I just wanna save us both the bullshit.”

“I _am_ being serious, Jason,” Tim says. “I’m not even— I don’t know if I even like guys, uh... like that. It’s just, Haly’s Circus used to sell these VHS tapes, and I had one I watched all the time as a kid. My favorite part was when the Flying Graysons came on… So when I saw your brother, I realized I never knew what ended up happening with their kid. That’s all.”

Again, he sounds genuine. It’s disarming. Jason chews on the end of his cigarette, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t turn to look back at Tim.

“Yeah, well,” he says, “now you do.”

“Okay,” Tim says. “Thanks. Sorry.”

“Hn.”

“You two don’t get along, huh?”

Jason rolls his eyes. “What gave it away?”

Tim doesn’t answer. They walk in silence like that for a few more uncomfortable minutes. It gives Jason just enough time to think about what an ass he’s being. If all Tim wanted was an easy in with Dick, wouldn’t he have made his move a little bit sooner? Besides, apparently he’s following Dick’s Instagram. It’d be easier to DM him if he wanted to hook up. Lord knows Dick responds to enough requests like that already.

They pass a little Italian place with the door wide open. Jason takes in a breath of delicious-smelling air, then sighs.

“Look,” he says, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just used to— to Dick being the, uh, _popular_ one.”

Tim copies Jason’s peculiar inflection. “ _‘Popular…_?’”

“He fucks enough of your friends, you end up a little disillusioned, okay?”

“Oh! He… Uh.” Tim clears his throat. Out of the corner of Jason’s eye, he looks scarlet. “So I guess he does that a lot, then.”

“A regular charmer,” Jason says, voice thick with a negative undercurrent that says loads more than he’d ever feel comfortable telling Tim. “Like I said, do whatever you want. But I was kinda hoping not to talk about my family tonight.”

“No, that’s fine,” Tim says. “They seem, um…”

“Batshit insane?”

“...I was gonna say ‘eccentric.’” Jason looks over at Tim, who flashes him a guilty smile. “But yeah, a little crazy, too.”

Finally, Jason pulls out a lighter and ignites his cigarette with a flick of his thumb. “What gave it away? The BDSM mask, or the coke?”

“Sorry,” Tim says again. “No more talking about family. Just you and me tonight, okay?”

“...Yeah,” Jason says, letting a cloud of smoke filter out between them. “Just you and me.”

 

Tim sticks to his word after that. They fall back into their easy pattern from the previous two nights, talking about school and the city and books. Tim isn’t as big a reader as he is, but he’s read a few of the classics for school, plus what amounts to an apparent fuckton of nonfiction as a hobby. He seems to know at least a little bit about every subject that comes up.

“Bruce’s library is very extensive,” he says. He must see the sparkle in Jason’s eyes, because he follows it up with, “You should come see it sometime. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, “I’d like that,” all the while doubting that Wayne would ever let anyone from his family back in the manor again after what happened last time.

They pass through a gas station and buy two armfuls of snacks and drinks, and eventually end up on a small hill overlooking a church. Tim cracks open an energy drink and Jason tugs at a strip of beef jerky with his teeth. Past the big, ominous steeple, the sky has gone pink and purple with the promise of impending sunset.

“I like the gargoyles,” Jason says.

“Huh?”

“The gargoyles on top of the church.” He shrugs. “It just looks like… I dunno, like a good spot. Like they can stay up there and just watch all the seedy crap going on in the city without having to be a part of it.”

Tim looks at him. For a second, it seems like he’s going to say something, but then he takes another sip of his drink. “That does sound nice.”

Jason chews on a chunk of jerky and laughs. “Like you don’t already know what it’s like. Your family has one of those fancy mansions too, don’t they?”

It’s hard to tell in the lighting, but it looks like Tim’s cheeks go pink. “I mean, it’s no Wayne Manor…”

“ _Nothing’s_ Wayne Manor but Wayne Manor,” Jason says. “But a mansion’s a mansion.”

“You’re one to talk about seeing things from up high,” Tim says, shoving his arm. “Doesn’t Roman Sionis live in a penthouse? One of the ones in those huge skyscrapers in the middle of the city?”

Jason looks him up and down. “You been doing your homework on me or something?” Tim opens and closes his mouth like a fish. He lets him sweat it out for a second before clapping a hand down onto his shoulder. “Kidding. Not like he makes a big secret out of it. Keep reacting like that, though, and someone might actually think you’re a stalker, Timbo.”

Tim huffs and fumbles with a bag of Cheetos. “It doesn’t count as stalking if it’s publicly-available information.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“Pretty sure it is.”

“Whatever,” Jason says. He leans back on his hands and considers the church, with its high bell tower and snarling statues on every corner. “Not like it matters, anyway. I know what it’s like being down there with the little people. My folks were, uh, definitely not part of the one percent before they died.”

“Your real parents?” Tim asks. He rests his elbows on his knees, turned toward Jason to listen.

“Yeah.” He hadn’t revealed much about his birth parents during any of their previous conversations. Hasn’t spoken about them much at all since Roman took him in. The urge to translate some of those far-off memories into verbal stories hits him hard. “...But I figure you don’t wanna hear about them. Not like they’re as weird or glamorous as my new family.”

He expects Tim to laugh it off. To say something polite like “Oh, no, I bet they were nice,” without his heart in it, maybe. What he doesn’t expect is for Tim to lay his head down on his knee and look at him like he’s the most interesting thing around, like the gargoyles and the sunset and the city aren’t even there.

“You can tell me,” he says. “If you want to.”

Tim Drake just keeps on surprising him.

For some reason, looking into Tim’s eyes suddenly feels far too intimate. Jason tears his gaze away and looks back at the cathedral. He doesn’t say anything for a long few minutes, grinding jerky between his teeth, washing it down with soda. He hardly tastes it.

“...We lived in the Narrows,” he says at last.

 

He tells Tim everything. He doesn’t _mean_ to spill his life story like a glass of milk all over the kitchen floor — figures the comparison is apt, because there’s no use crying over either situation. That life is so far away from him now, it almost feels like a dream.

Maybe that’s why he tells it. Figures his memories, like a dream, might fade away entirely if he doesn’t get them on record with someone else.

So he tells Tim about how he grew up checking through his cereal to make sure no roaches were crawling inside. How he had to make his own breakfast every morning, because his dad was gone and his mother was too high to know which way was up. How they had a TV but no cable, and Jason would sit in front of the static every day and make up his own stories, pretend like they were playing out in vibrant color until his father came home and shouted at him for wasting precious electricity.

He talks about making sure his mother was fed, and throwing away her used needles so she wouldn’t step on them when she eventually found the will to shuffle off into the bathroom. Talks about “her corner” in the main room, with the wallpaper even more stained and faded from how often she’d lean up against it and forget the world. He’d wrap her up in his only blanket and curl up next to her, and pretend for a while that she was hugging him and not using his body for support to keep from slumping over.

Tim listens through it all. Occasionally he pipes up to ask a question or get clarification, but for the most part, he’s silent. Jason glances toward him a few times, figuring he’d eventually catch him asleep or checking his phone, but every time, he’d just see Tim staring at him with unblinking eyes. _Like a cat,_ he thinks at one point.

He almost doesn’t tell him about how he wound up orphaned in the first place. Figures it’s too depressing (as if the rest wasn’t depressing enough). But when he watches Tim watching him, he decides he deserves to hear an ending to the story, since he’s listened to enough of it by now.

So he describes how he felt during one of those long stretches of time when his father didn’t come back home. Resignation, like he had during so many other similar instances, but also a growing worry. His mother was getting worse, using more and more heroin every time she shot up, falling deeper and deeper into a dark and unreachable place that Jason couldn’t pull her out of. He was barely twelve, and terrified of calling anyone to help. What if they learned what his father did for a living as hired muscle for any two-bit villain who needed help? What if they locked his mother up for possession of illegal drugs? She was his responsibility. He couldn’t do that to her.

He still regrets his inaction. Still shudders every time he thinks about the day he woke up _knowing_ something was wrong. Still can’t get over the memory of his mother’s pale blue face, how cold she looked even before he touched her.

He doesn’t tell Tim that he’d do anything to take that decision back. But he thinks it.

Tim’s hand settles on his shoulder halfway through. Jason figured his pity would feel awkward and stilted, but it doesn’t. It feels warm and solid and grounding, and he tears up a few blades of grass to keep from threading his fingers through Tim’s own.

“So, yeah,” he says. “Was on my own after that. Never did see Dad again. Found out later Two-Face killed him over a faulty coin flip — not that they’d’ve given me back to him, probably, if they found out what all was going on in the first place. I figured I’d rather sleep in a cardboard box than get booted around in foster care like some hand-me-down sneakers.”

“Then how did you wind up with Roman Sionis?” Tim asks. He looks shocked afterward, like he didn’t mean to say it, and bites his lip. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer.”

“It’s okay,” Jason says.

What he doesn’t say is, _sometimes I wonder that myself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is there a bit more Jason backstory coming up? mmmaaaayyyybbbbeeee... ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here it is: the long-anticipated backstory. buckle in, folks! it's a ~flashback chapter~!

The months after Jason’s mother died were rough. Not physically; he’d been taking care of both himself and his mother since his father disappeared, dealing with hunger pains and everything that came with living in an apartment with no air or heat. But mentally, emotionally? Things had never been worse.

He couldn’t even bury his mom. If he’d been around at all when her body was taken away, someone would’ve no doubt grabbed him and thrown him into foster care. He’d heard enough horror stories from other kids in the Narrows, whispered tales of abuse, rape and neglect that made his own parents look like saints in comparison. Jason vowed not to become a pawn in that ugly game, no matter what it took.

But leaving her was rough. Never knowing whether she was buried or cremated or just dumped somewhere unceremoniously like trash was worse. And being alone was more awful than anything else.

At least when she’d been alive, he had been able to talk to her. She didn’t usually respond, yeah, but having her warm body at his side made him feel like he still had a place in the world. Like he still mattered to someone, even if his father had gotten caught up with some bad crowd and forgotten about him. Keeping her fed and clothed and bathed gave him something to do with his life.

On his own, all he could do was survive. Every waking moment was devoted to scoping out shelter, wrangling up food, and defending his meager possessions. His nights were spent restless and alert, ever-ready to run from the cops or other homeless people who wanted his spot. Sometimes, when he managed to bathe well enough to contain his own smell, he’d go to the library and read. He filled up on knowledge in place of food, secluded in his own little corner where librarians and customers rarely roamed. Other times, there was nothing to do but smoke and drink and gamble with the other boys (only when he was sure he’d win, and only often enough that they wouldn’t catch on to his cheating).

He never liked making money that way. The risk of a loss or a beating was too great. His father wasn’t the most useful man on the planet, but he had given Jason several tips that helped him stay alive during his time on the streets:

_ Don’t ever bet more than you have. _

_ Don’t beg; you’ll just draw attention to yourself. _

_ If you have to steal, do it when no one is around. _

Dear old dad always thought pickpocketing was too risky, at least for someone like Jason, with small, unpracticed hands. Breaking and entering required lots of planning — who was there and when, what type of security they had, what was even worth stealing inside. Of all the myriad ways to profit off of someone else, his dad preferred one simple way: jacking tires off cars.

It was kinda funny. One of the few happy memories Jason had with his father was of the time he taught him how to use a tire iron. Jason felt like an outlaw, a rugged soon-to-be-hero from the movies, doing a little bad to do a lot of good. He’d grinned and giggled the whole time, even after his father shushed him.

Dad had been smiling, too.

Maybe that was why Jason preferred it, deep down. But then, it wasn’t like it wasn’t lucrative. He had a good fence, one who’d pay up fast and easy, usually enough money to buy Jason’s meals for the next week. Two, if he stretched it out. And that was when he boosted them from crappy cars with some wear in the treads.

The shiny black Bentley Mulsanne parked in some secluded spot a few blocks from the main road one night was so,  _ so _ far from crappy.

He figured it was the owner’s own damn fault for parking it in the middle of Crime Alley. Don’t leave nice shit there if you don’t want it stolen. Anyone that dumb didn’t deserve what they had, Jason figured. Besides, obviously the guy had money. Replacing the tires would be no problem; he’d go on with his life, and Jason would be able to quell the nonstop aching in his empty stomach.

He got two whole tires off and was working on a third before he heard someone come up behind him. The dumbass had to announce his entrance with a friendly, “C’mere, you little shit.” It gave Jason enough warning to spin around and slam the tire iron right into his gut.

The man doubled over, and Jason didn’t stick around to get a good look at him. He bolted halfway down the alley before someone else with longer legs and a bitch of an armspan snatched him up by the back of the neck. His shirt cut into his throat so hard he choked and let go of the tire iron; it was enough of a distraction that it was easy for the man to lift him off the ground. Beating at him with his fists and kicking like a madman, Jason tried his best to get free, but the guy was both built and, from the feel of it, wearing body armor of some kind. He was dragged spitting and cursing back to the car, where he was dropped ungraciously onto his knees in the middle of a circle of people.

Looking up at them was like catching his first glimpse into the gates of Hell. All the men were impeccably-dressed in suits that must have cost more than what Jason saw in a year. But more eye-catching than that were their masks: black leather, bug-eyed and skin-tight, with zippered maws that he could just see opening wide to chew him to the bone.

Well. All except for one of them. The odd one out was a teenager in half-unbuttoned formal wear, hiding a smile behind his hand.

“He really got you, Crank,” he said to a man rubbing his stomach and grumbling. “Oh, man, I could  _ hear _ that connect.”

A few of the other guys snickered. “Crank” shoved one of them and cursed the others out. Jason considered making a run for it while their attention was divided, but the moment he looked back toward the entrance of the alley, he heard the click of a gun above his head.

“Don’t try it, kid,” said the man who’d caught him.

Shit. He was in for a beating for sure. He considered bolting anyway, on the off chance that they’d consider one bullet fair enough retribution; maybe that would hurt less than whatever they were planning to do to him. But, glancing up at the shiny black muzzle of the gun, he felt his legs turn to lead. His life sucked, sure, but he didn’t want to  _ die. _

“What do we do with ‘im, boss?” another man asked.

“Kill him, obviously,” said one more. “He saw us at the drop site. Hell, he saw pretty boy’s  _ face. _ We can’t just let him leave.”

“I didn’t see nothin’,” Jason said, almost like a reflex. That same reflex led him to, begrudgingly, raise his hands above his head. “I didn’t hear nothin’. You can take your cruddy tires back. Whatever. Like I care.”

He  _ did _ care. He cared a whole lot more than he was willing to let these bozos see. Inside, his heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. But outwardly, he just kept his cool, played the part of the street rat without enough brains to put two and two together that he was witnessing something very illegal. Like, big players in the game-level illegal.

The man standing next to the teenager seemed to be the leader of the pack. He was the only one with a red tie instead of a black one, and he looked impeccably clean next to everyone else. Didn’t seem like the type to get his hands dirty.

(Jason almost laughs at that assumption, looking back on it.)

Boss-man hummed, like he was more bored than anything else. “What to do, what to do… I certainly hate to reinforce negative behavior. And what would people say if they knew they could get away with stealing from the Black Mask?”

Maybe he’d phrased it that way to get some sort of a reaction. Recognition, or fear, or reverence or whatever. But at that age, Jason had paid little mind to mobster politics, save for learning whose territory it was safe to boost in. Suffice to say, he hadn’t heard of the man or his gang at all. Newbies, maybe, at least to the area.

“So,” he’d said before he could stop himself, “which one of you’s the Black Mask? Or is it all of you? Cuz I hate to say it, but that’s a really dumb uniform idea if Black Mask is just one guy. Someone should try, like, red. Make it easy to tell who’s who.”

After months on his own, having to assert himself as a person and not just a child to be picked on and taken advantage of, Jason had developed something of an attitude. It was only after the words came out of his mouth that he realized that might not be the best strategy for the occasion.

But whaddya know. “Pretty boy” laughed again.

“I like him,” he said, laying a hand on red-tie’s shoulder. “Don’t kill him, Daddy.”

Oh, shit. So that was the score. Immediately, impressing the teenager became Jason’s sole objective. If this mob was anything like the others in Gotham, family was everything to them. And what father could refuse his son’s request?

The leader was silent for a few moments. Jason bit his tongue, glancing between him and his son while trying not to look too worried. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he waved his hand.

“Alright, alright. But you can thank me by going with him to fetch my tires. And you,” he said, looking down at Jason. His eye pieces reminded Jason of a fly, which was ironic, because he felt like he was the one trapped in the spider’s web right now. “Don’t forget this kindness.”

That one single sentence said a lot of things. It said, _ “I don’t do this often.”  _ It said,  _ “If you’re ungrateful, I’ll know.” _ And, most of all, it said,  _ “You owe me your life, and I expect that debt to be repaid someday.”  _ That particular attitude was why Jason hated working for crime families so much. You owe Joe Schmo twenty bucks, and if you blow him off, he kicks your ass. You owe something to a don? There aren’t words for the kind of hell you’ll be in for if you don’t repay with interest.

Still, it was that or death. Jason swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded slowly. “Thanks.”

With the mask on, Jason couldn’t see a change in expression, but he could practically hear it, even though Black Mask’s “Pardon me?” was delivered in the same tone as before.

“Er, uh.” Jason fumbled with his words, hoping he could guess what this lunatic wanted. “Thank you, Sir.”

Another few seconds of silence. Then Black Mask nodded in kind. “Better. Now, go. Show my son where you put my tires.”

He dismissed them with a jerk of his head. The circle around Jason dispersed, and he got up on shaky feet to show the kid the way back to his place.

 

Jason had expected him to pull out a weapon and use it to keep him in line while they walked, but he didn’t. The thought of running crossed his mind, but betraying the person responsible for sparing his life sounded like a great way to be dead within the hour, no matter how well he knew the best hiding spots in Gotham. So he walked, with the pretty boy keeping pace next to him.

“Sorry about them,” he said basically as soon as they were alone. “Daddy can get  _ so _ uptight about work sometimes.”

“It’s whatever,” Jason lied, shoving his hands into his pockets. He didn’t think it was worth starting a fight over whether nearly killing a child counted as just “uptight.” “Thanks for, uh, y’know. Saving my ass ‘n’ everything.”

The teen grinned. “It was worth it for the best entertainment I’ve had all night. Hey, what’s your name?”

His voice, his face, that smile… Everything about the guy was totally charming. It was almost like they’d been friends for ages. Totally caught in his spell, Jason answered him — truthfully, this time.

“I’m Dick,” his companion said. He stopped and turned, offering Jason his hand.

Jason was halfway to shaking it when he stopped and pulled back. “That’s— I don’t need to know that. Saw nothin’, heard nothin’, remember?”

He thought it was the right answer to a trick, but Dick just looked taken aback. Almost… sad.

“Oh…” He drew his hand up and scratched the back of his neck. The motion called attention to the decorative collar he was wearing, white and gold with shiny silver rings. Jason recalled thinking it was weird, but no weirder than the rest of the gang’s attire. “Oh, yeah. Okay, I guess. But I don’t think it matters to just know my first name, right?”

Jason rolled his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. He couldn’t take any more of that face — fucking kicked puppy, was what it looked like — so he turned around and started up walking again.

The way back to Jason’s current hole in the wall wasn’t far, not if you took the back way. And, luckily, it seemed like hardly anyone was out that night. Maybe they’d heard something he didn’t about Black Mask and his gang, or maybe they just had better instincts, like animals hunkering down before a tsunami. Either way, he was glad to not have to defend Dick from the people who’d no doubt try to mug his Versace-looking ass.

His “apartment” was near the outskirts of an abandoned housing project that had failed to obtain funding halfway through development. It had since been overtaken by Gotham’s homeless, at least until the cops found them and shooed them away again. Jason had staked a claim on a basement unit. Studio, one bath with no running water, infested with practically everything that could infest places, but it was better than nothing. He’d even had time to decorate a little, with pictures from trashed magazines taped to the walls and old books stolen out of the library’s recycling bin piled in the corners.

In one book-free corner laid the tires. Jason said, “Alright, here we go,” and turned back to Dick, only to be greeted with the funniest expression he’d ever seen in his life. Dick, still halfway out the door, wasn’t even looking at him; he was looking up at the cracked concrete ceiling and the crane flies attached to it, brows furrowed, eyes wide, and nostrils flared. Perhaps wary of something landing inside of it, his mouth was shut tight, twisted into an almost cartoonish frown. He looked like he might bolt at any second, one leg bent like an Olympic runner poised to start the 100 meter dash.

“You okay?” Jason asked, trying and failing to keep the laughter out of his voice.

Dick looked at him only briefly enough to admonish him with his eyes, then went back to scanning every inch of the place, presumably to make sure no bug was within touching distance. When he seemed sure enough, he parted his lips just wide enough to speak. “Do you— You don’t  _ live _ here, right...?”

Jason shrugged. “Roof over my head, door to keep out the crazies. It’s been better than most places so far.”

“You can’t be serious. Where are your parents?” Dick asked.

Jason’s face fell. He turned away to try and hide it, focusing on lifting up a tire. “Not around.”

The resulting silence felt uncomfortable. Jason prepared himself for a barrage of questions, or some sad, sympathetic “I’m  _ sorry, _ ” accompanied by that look people gave him when they saw homeless orphans. The one that said  _ “it sure does suck that you live like that, but I’ll be happy when you’re gone and I don’t have to remember poor people exist for a while.” _

He kept his shoulders slumped and his head down as he rolled the tire toward the door, only chancing a glance up once Dick’s designer shoes entered his line of vision. But what he saw wasn’t the aww-you-poor-thing look he’d been expecting. It was something… stranger. Hard to place. Almost  _ resolute, _ if Jason had to choose a word for it. Dick’s eyes flicked down Jason’s body and then back up, as if searching for something. Then he smiled.

“C’mon. Let’s get these back to Daddy.”

Jason nodded, passing the first tire to Dick, who neglected to grab it before it fell against the doorjamb. They shared a look, Dick with his hand hovering awkwardly half a foot from the tire, Jason with a brow raised. He came to the conclusion that Dick was one of those types who had a thing against getting dirty.

He couldn’t help himself. He smirked.

“If it’s too heavy for you, I’ll—”

“No, no,” Dick said quickly. It was too dark to see much, but from how flustered he was, Jason guessed he was blushing. “I, uh, I got it. You just— You get the other one.”

Jason bit his lip to stop himself from grinning. “Okay.”

 

He ended up rolling them both back by himself, anyway. Dick had gotten halfway up the stairs when he spotted a waterbug, screamed, “What the fuck is  _ that, _ ” dropped the tire, and sprinted the rest of the way up and away from the building. By the time Jason caught up with him, he was still brushing himself off frantically. Jason actually wondered for a second if he was on some sort of drug, but quickly realized that Dick was just painfully afraid of insects. After bursting into laughter and dealing with the ensuing angry puppy face that got him, he and Dick started to walk back, Jason expertly steering both tires the whole way.

“I just can’t understand it,” Dick told him more than once on the way back. “They could  _ crawl _ on you while you  _ sleep. _ Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Eh, they normally keep their distance. Most of ‘em are harmless, anyway. It’s the bloodsuckers you gotta watch out for.”

“B-blood…?!”

“You know, like the bedbugs and fleas and all,” Jason said, taking pleasure in the paleness of Dick’s face. “Basically impossible to get rid of once you got ‘em. You just have to move and hope there are none left on your clothes when you find a new place.”

“Oh, that’s gross,” Dick said. “Think I’m gonna be sick…”

Jason grinned maliciously. “You think  _ that’s _ bad? Wait ‘til you hear about Tickhead Tyler. He squats in Robinson Park, and he always ends up with these huge ticks just chilling on him… He leaves ‘em there until they fall off. Doesn’t even care!”

“Stop, stop!” Dick yelped, covering his ears with his hands. “Walk faster. Come  _ on! _ I don’t wanna be here…”

“Yeah?” Jason said on the tail end of a laugh. “Shit, me neither. But you gotta do what you gotta do. You get used to it, anyway.”

“I don’t see how,” Dick said, practically sulking as they walked. He kept looking down at the ground, like some army of bugs would come around to block his path any second now. Whenever he actually spotted one, he gave it such a wide berth that he nearly knocked Jason over a few times.

“Ain’t like we got much other choice,” Jason said. “I don’t even think the bugs want us around, much less the fat cats who put spikes on all the good sleeping spots uptown.”

Dick didn’t answer. He just walked faster, several times nearly ducking down the wrong alleyway until Jason shouted for him to come back. The kid was completely clueless. He had half a mind to just let him go off in the wrong direction, laugh when he found himself in one of the even  _ cruddier _ districts, but he figured his “generous benefactor” wouldn’t be as amused if they were late.

As soon as the gang was back in sight, Dick scrambled over to his father, practically throwing himself in his arms. They stepped off to the side, Dick speaking in a hushed voice — probably telling Black Mask all about how undignified it was to walk through  _ poor people’s territory _ — while Jason set to work putting the tires back in place.

He felt the gang’s eyes on him while he worked. Smelled the stink of cigarettes, and found himself desperately craving one. His own stash had run out a couple days ago, and the urge was a bitch. Just another reason for him to be too eager about a big payout when selecting cars to jack.

Finally, he finished. He let out a breath and slumped back against the car, hoping to leave a nice, dirty streak on it. He took a minute to catch his breath — watched one of the gangsters snuff out half a perfectly-good cig under his boot and resolved to grab the remains once they left — when a loud  _ thwap _ caught his attention. He and all the rest of the group looked over to see Dick standing in front of Black Mask just in time to watch him stomp his foot a second time, recreating the noise.

Holy shit. He was throwing a tantrum.

Black Mask held up his hands, muttered something Jason couldn’t hear, then glanced back at their audience. The gangsters immediately looked away and pretended to be busy scuffing their shoes against the concrete or adjusting their gloves, but Jason kept looking. Watched as Black Mask turned back around and said something that made Dick unclench his fists and smile. Then he sat there, apprehensive, as Black Mask strode calmly up to him.

“Your parents,” he said, obviously trying hard to disguise how little he wanted to be saying it. “Temporarily out of the picture? Or…”

Jason bit the inside of his cheek and shrugged. “Mom’s dead. She was sick. Dad’s probably locked up, I dunno. Haven’t seen him in months.”

He felt the scrutiny of everyone present as Black Mask adjusted his tie and glanced at his watch. “Alright, well,” he said, “that won’t do. You’re coming with us.”

“Huh?” Jason bolted to his feet immediately, very aware of the car pressed against his back. Were the doors unlocked? Could he slip through one and out the other before someone caught him? “No, you can’t take me to CPS. They’ll shut me up in some foster home, bounce me through the system the rest of my life. No way!”

He looked over Black Mask’s shoulder at Dick, eyes screaming,  _ “You told him?!” _ But Dick was calm, and wore that same charming smile from before. He strode forward, hands behind his back, spring in his step like he could barely contain himself. There was no trace of anger left on his face.

“No, silly,” he said, “you’re coming with  _ us. _ Me and Daddy. You can live at our place!”

“Wh… What?” Jason glanced back and forth, searching for some hint that this was a joke. None were forthcoming.

Black Mask cleared his throat and set a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “My boy is… disheartened at what he saw. He cares about people, you know. We certainly have the space, and Dick’s been aching for some company…”

“I’ve always wanted a little brother,” Dick chimed in, winking at Jason.

Jason gaped. “You… You’re serious? I mean… I… I dunno, Sir. That’s— That’s very generous of you, but—”

“No buts.” Black Mask, ignoring his gang’s sideways glances and whispered words, clapped a hand on Jason’s shoulder then. “I’ll arrange everything. The papers, the… adoption. You won’t have to bother stealing tires anymore.”

There, that was the real crux of it. The subtle hint that he was expected to repay his debt tonight. Dick wanted him to move in with them, and Black Mask couldn’t find it in him to say no. He spared Jason’s life, and now Jason would give that life to Dick to make him happy. There was no choice to be made, no bartering about the specifics. Family was everything.

And now Jason was about to be family, too.

He looked around at the alley one last time, wondering how long it’d be before they grew bored of him and dumped him out on the streets again. If he’d be alive when they did it. Then he looked back at Black Mask and Dick, looming over him, one smiling and the other expressionless.

He nodded.

“...Thank you, Sir.”


End file.
